


A Theorem Yet To Be Solved

by lammermoorian



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Criminal Masterminds, Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: Only professionals need apply.*Novelization of the Criminal Masterminds finale, with some creative liberties.





	A Theorem Yet To Be Solved

“This is it, boys,” says Mrs. Jones, her dark eyes glinting in the pale morning light that streams through the window of the office, a few stray wisps of bright red hair escaping her tightly wound bun the only indication of how stressed she is. “No matter which way this goes – we’ll be done, one way or another.”

There’s a groan and a thud from Dooley as he thumps his head against the table. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Jeremy!” barks Jones’ husband, pissed off as usual – a good sign. Michael Jones, he of the miniscule temper, is only ever calm when they are in real trouble. “We are this fucking close, dude, one cunt-hair away from ten million dollars. Each!” He leans forward, spittle flying from his mouth, “So don’t cock this up by freaking out.”

“He’s right,” says Lindsay, leaning back in the boss’ chair. She’s been filling the position very nicely since Ramsay left on his little crime sabbatical or what-the-fuck-ever he called it; Ryan certainly wouldn’t mind if she just ousted him completely. Not that he plans on overthrowing Ramsay any time soon – but it never hurt anybody to silently speculate. “Just stick to the plan, and we’re all getting out of here golden. That said – “

Jeremy moans again. “Goddammit.”

“There’s been a slight change in the plan.”

A chorus of beeps echoes throughout the office as Ryan updates their maps. “The canyon’s been compromised,” he grunts. Goddamn cops found his desert bunker – unfortunate, as Ryan put a lot of work into that base. It almost killed him to watch it go up in flames, were it not for the unexpected opportunity it provided as a test for Michael’s latest bomb. “Trevor and his team will cover the canyon as a diversion, while we split off at Calafia bridge. Micah’s already got one of her people waiting for us with a boat. Once you’re in, head upstream, under the highway, until you’re out on open water – then we rendezvous at Base C. Got it?” He looks around the table, satisfied in everyone’s rapt, expectant faces – all except one, that is. “Got it?”

Gavin fucking Free is glued to his phone, gaze focused entirely on his lap, the head-bobbing, lidded-gaze, slack-jawed idiot, and not paying any attention to Ryan and his vital, life-saving, forty-million-dollar briefing. Again.

Ryan would be this close to choking him out if Michael hadn’t already beat him to the punch, slapping Gavin upside the head. “Focus, moron!” 

“Wot?”

“I said,” growls Ryan, glaring, “got it?”

To his credit, Gavin seems suitably embarrassed. Serves the fucker right. “Yes, Ry-an, I got it. Split at Calafia, grab a boat, party on the yacht.” He rubs his head, pouting. “No need to hit me, you bell end.”

It’s not that Gavin’s not good at his job. It’s not that having the best hacker on both sides of the Atlantic doesn’t mean Ryan isn’t willing to put up with some bullshit to get some results. It’s the fact that Gavin, while he may be a genius with computers, for some reason doesn’t have enough braincells to rub together to follow a fucking plan and not wander off, or blow up a stray tanker, or – or break the fucking Titan in mid-air! Every goddamn time Ryan comes up with a plan so beautiful, so profoundly sublime that it would be almost impossible to go awry, Gavin Free surprises him yet again. And, now, with forty million on the line, Ryan is fucking tired of surprises.

“If you even think about fucking this up for me,” Ryan hisses, “I will beat you so hard, you’ll wake up in a mental ward three days from now with total amnesia, under a different name.”

Gavin gulps, hard. Lindsay coughs, drawing attention. “Okay then. To review. 

“The mission is simple: get in, get the cash, get out, with as little police presence as possible. You’ll arrive at the target at 1200 hours. You picked us a car, yet, Jeremy?”

He nods. “We’ll take one of my old Kurumas. If,” he sighs, despondent, “if we have to, we can use it as cover.”

“Michael, Jeremy, you two are on crowd control. Lock down the bank, take out security, and make sure no one gets the chance to call N.O.O.S.E.

“Ryan, you’re demo. Get those gates open. No matter what you do, if those gates are open for more than five minutes, they will automatically trigger a 911 call, so there’s no need for subtlety here.” Ryan grins.

“I swapped out the previous fuse for a shorter one on the thermal,” says Michael, “but the trade-off is the core’ll be so hot, it’s gonna melt the lock like a wet paper towel. Twelve inch max on the radius, so be sure not to stick your nose in it, Gavin,” he jeers.

For once in his life, Gavin does not rise to the nose-related bait. Too lost in his own world, perhaps. “Gavin,” says Lindsay, with laser intent, drawing him back to reality, “you’re the hacker. Once Ryan gets you to the vault, we need you to open it. Remember, there’s no time limit for you like there was during the Humane Labs raid, so take your time, and take it easy. Three wrong passwords, and that vault locks itself down from the inside out.” Gavin bobs his head, his Adam’s apple clicking. 

“Once you two are in, you and Ryan grab the cash – twenty mil each.

“Regroup and exit the bank, cross the street and get to the alley. The Lost MC bikes are around the corner, hooked up with Jeremy’s boosters. And get out of there as fast as possible. There are going to be cops literally up your assholes at this point, so don’t shoot, don’t engage – just run. Split at Calafia bridge, and let the support team draw their fire. You four get to the boat, then get on the water. Understood?”

Gavin nods. Jeremy whines, tapping his fingers on the wood. Michael drawls, “Yes ma’am,” accent pulling way too Jersey to ever be mistaken for Texan. Lindsay smiles, sharp and wide. 

“Great. Now get the hell out of my office.”  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Everyone deals with anticipation differently. Michael cleans his gun, lubing the barrel until it shines, unloading and reloading his clip with a methodological precision he only brings when he deactivates one of his inventions. Jeremy drives like an octogenarian without her glasses, maddeningly protective of his idiotically named car.  
“You wanna get us there today, baby driver?” Michael quips as Jeremy lets at least four different people have right of way at the intersection. 

“We have not come this far to let it end by getting fucking T-boned on the way to the bank, alright?” He looks left, right, then left again, before finally letting go of the brake. “My car, my driving, and the Armored Rim hasn’t handled like it used to since somebody,” and here he finally turns from the road to shoot a glare at Michael, “left a random C4 in its path that just so happened to detonate under my car!”

Ryan, in predictable fashion, handles anticipation the way he handles nearly everything else – silently, and without much commentary. There’s no need for him to add to the inevitable chatter anyway. It’s a simple set of givens: in the moments leading up to a heist, Jeremy will let his nerves dictate his driving, Michael will take apart his weapons to make sure they’re working properly, and Gavin will insert one of his stupid hypotheticals, insisting upon playing out whatever ridiculous scenario he has going on inside of his head to its illogical end, regardless of whether they’re in the car or in the middle of a firefight. 

“Gav,” Michael swivels back, a twenty clutched in his outstretched hand, “I will give you twenty bucks, right now, if you help me blow up the Armored Rim as soon as this is over.”

“Hey!”

There’s no sound coming from Ryan’s right, save for the soft clicks of some seriously furious tapping. Gavin has his head buried in his phone, eyes glued to the screen, pink tongue poking out between his teeth as he concentrates, then – 

“Dammit!” He thumps the floor of the car, gurgles of anger spitting from his lips, “Sodding, shitting piece of – “ A pause, as he registers the fact that everyone in the car is staring at him, then a sheepish wince curls up his face. “Sorry. Just, uh, just trying to beat my time.”

“If you’re playing Crossy Road again, I swear to fucking God – “

Jeremy laughs, high and tight. “We’re about to hit the most secure bank on the West Coast, and Gavin is playing Crossy Road. Unbelievable.”

Fascinated with Gavin’s embarrassment, the red tips of his ears and the stupid pout on his lips, Ryan can’t help but sneak a look at Gavin’s phone to see how bad it really is. Gavin is notoriously terrible at video games, a fact that Michael and Jeremy never cease rib him about, capitalizing on his easy frustration and legendary overreactions for quick and dirty comedy when the need arises. Despite this, Gavin has never been bothered by it – usually he owns his fucks ups, displays them with a pride that can only be labeled as narcissistic – so it must be a truly terrible score, if he’s this upset. 

Instead of the colorful, blocky birds he was expecting, all Ryan can see is the green and grey of Neil’s hacker sim app before Gavin dives back in, thumbs blazing. Ninety seconds later, he squawks again, thumping his elbow into the car door as Neil’s shifty, pixelated face laughs at him, before disappearing in a flash of animated light. “Are you,” ventures Ryan, Gavin cutting him off with a harsh ‘shh!’ “Are you practicing?”

Gavin nods, mouth grim. “Neil imported a clone of the bank’s security into the app the other day. ‘M trying to hack it in less than two minutes.”

Huh. Ryan frowns. He didn’t think Gavin was even capable of the concept of preparation, given his enduring fondness for chaos and confusion, and his determination to be a wild card in all aspects of his life. Ryan would almost respect the impetus to practice, were it not for the fact that Gavin is never forward thinking enough to even consider practicing. “You know you don’t have a time limit on this one, right?”

“I – I know that,” he mutters, sending a furtive glance Ryan’s way. 

He turns to look at Gavin, taking in the full set of his huddled shoulders, the tension in his neck, his worried brow. “I mean,” he starts, slowly, deliberately, “I appreciate the sentiment, but you’re gonna have all the time you need. At least,” he raises an eyebrow, “according to the latest intel we’ve received. The intel your man provided us.”

Gavin shrugs, fingers never slipping. 

“Unless you’ve gotten some different intel.” If Ryan had been a different person, if he hadn’t been paying so close attention, if he hadn’t learned Gavin from the inside out after years of working together, he might have missed the flinch. As it is, he reads it loud and fucking clear. “Gavin?”

“Gentlemen!” Jeremy crows, throwing the Kuruma into a u-turn, “we have arrived at our destination!” Smooth as an execution, Dooley brings them right up to the corner curb, sliding into the handicapped parking space with a squeal of rubber. 

“Yes!” cries Michael, his savage grin unimpeded by the helmet he dons, kicking the car door open. “Let’s go rob a fucking bank!” Gavin slides out after him, studiously ignoring Ryan’s gaze, slipping on his helmet with the tinted visor. Slippery bastard.

And then, all of a sudden, there’s very little time to contemplate Gavin’s skittishness as the heist officially begins. 

“What’s up, bitches!” Michael Jones, true to his nature, flings the doors wide open, strolling into the bank, minigun primed and ready to go, and, instead of reaching for his weapon, decides to clock the security officer in the face. “Get on the fucking ground, this is a robbery!” Only when the assembled civilians begin screaming does he get out his gun, firing into an empty corner.

Jeremy, right behind him, already has his pistol pointed squarely at the sole bank teller’s face. “Don’t you even think about touching that phone!”

Gavin trots up next to him, rifle in hand. “Door’s secure.”

“Alright,” Ryan shouts, “listen up, everybody! You do what we say, you’re gonna get out of here no worse for the wear.” Michael and Jeremy flank him, stalking around the bank lobby like the savage animals they are, deep down inside, strutting and peacocking with their loaded weapons. “If you sit tight, and stay quiet, we’ll be out of your hair before you know it. And if anyone tries anything heroic,” Ryan cocks his micro-SMG, aiming for the woman cowering on the floor in front of him. “Let’s just say it’ll be the last idea you ever have.” With the audience sufficiently cowed, he signals to Gavin, heading for the stairs. “Come on.”

The first lock disintegrates when faced with the thermite, true to Michael’s word. He doesn’t look it, but Michael really is a genius when it comes to explosives. The guy definitely could have been a top tier engineer; some of his stuff is more efficient and deadly than any of the Iraqi IEDs Ryan had come up against in his past. The second one goes just as easily, wilting away in front of Ryan’s very eyes; at this rate, they won’t even need the spare. 

Silent but for the soft tap of leather on cement, they descend to the vault, Gavin covering his back. A racket of gunfire echoes through the stairwell. “I could do this all fucking day, dickhead!” Michael cackles from afar. “Try me!” 

And at last, they reach their goal: the vault door. Three tons of steel-titanium alloy, an 8-bit, randomly generated encryption key that changes every three minutes, and to top it all off, one of the most advanced AIs on the planet, programmed to patch up any cracks in the code in real time, even as it is being forced open - the Titanic of security technology, as it has so proudly been named, lies in front of them, just ready for the breaking. “You’re up,” says Ryan, grabbing the kid by the scruff of his neck and hauling him forward.

“Ryan,” he stumbles, nearly cracking his nose on the handle, “you’ve got another thermite, right? M-maybe we should try melting the door – “

“Melt the door?” asks Ryan, sweetly. “Why, I thought you were the one of the best hackers on the planet. You telling me you can’t handle a little encryption key?”

Gavin flushes, indignant. “Yes, I can handle an encryption key, Ryan – I just think that this might not be, you know, the best way to go about this situation – “

“That thing,” he jabs at the door, “has a melting point of three thousand degrees centigrade, and you want me to just toss a thermite at it. You got a nuclear reactor in your pocket?” The kid is boiling, steam building between his ears, and just waiting to explode. Ryan presses on. “So what, is it the AI? You afraid some computer is gonna show you up?”

“I can hack it, I swear!” he begs, wide-eyed and pathetic.

“Then why are you being such a little bitch about it?”

“For your information, I’ve already hacked it! Oh,” he shrinks back, worry flooding the space where anger had just occupied. 

Ryan can’t fault him. He feels the exact same. “Excuse me?” 

“Did I say – I mean, I never – why would you even – “

Ryan growls, deep in his chest. “Enough. The truth, Gavin. Now.” On the hilt of his micro, his fingers twitch.

Gavin shivers. “I – I hacked the Titanic about a month ago.”

“And you didn’t think to let us know about it?”

“Well I didn’t _hack it_ hack it,” he admits, eyes fixed on the floor between Ryan’s boots. “I just did some backdoor networking to set up a relay so I could get in today, no big deal. Only,” he glances up under long lashes, fear making his eyes as bright as fires, “I wasn’t as careful as I could have been.”

“Define careful,” says Ryan, slowly.

“They got a lock on my IP, my signature – everything. The AI knows I was already here.”

“And?”

“So if I can’t crack this in under two minutes, the AI will recognize me – it’ll be able to follow the trail all the way back to my computer in the base.”

For a single second, all Ryan sees is red, and Gavin’s nose smashed against his face, his blood splattered on the vault behind him, before he closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. When he opens it, Gavin’s face is still there, whole and frightened, and Ryan’s fingers twitch with the desire to make him bleed. With a voice like gravel, throat scratchy like he’s been screaming, he snarls, “You stupid, careless, moronic – “

“I can do this!” Gavin insists, turning around to get started, cables spilling out of him from nowhere. “Just give me two minutes, and I can – “ 

He freezes. A smart move, as Ryan has just pressed the barrel of his gun against the back of Gavin’s head. “Two minutes, you said?”

“R-Ryan,” Gavin stutters, “what are you – “

“You like making bets, Gav, so how about this one. You have one minute to open the door. If, by some miracle, you manage to get it open before the minute is up, I won’t shoot you in the head, and we continue with the plan like nothing ever happened. But if you don’t,” he jabs the gun, relishing the soft thump as it connects to Gavin’s thick skull, “I will execute you on the fucking spot. Deal?”

Gavin nods. Even this far away, Ryan can see the shaking of his body, can feel the tremors vibrating through the barrel, up his arm and settling into his bones. “Good. Now, do your fucking job, and get that door open.”

The seconds tick by, almost audibly. Ryan considers counting down aloud, but instead, settles for announcing “forty-five seconds” as it passes. Gavin swears under his breath from his vantage point on the floor, nimble fingers not missing a beat as they attach cables and tap buttons. Maybe Ryan should threaten Gavin’s life more often. “Thirty seconds, Gav.”

“Come on, come on,” he mumbles, typing, “just give me the smegging password – “

“Fifteen.”

“Fuck off, Ryan!”

The password begins to form, finally, Gavin hurriedly punching in letters as soon as they pop up on his phone. ‘B-U-M-C-‘

“Nine, eight, seven, six – “

“Got it!” Gavin shrieks. The indicator light on the door turns green, pinging gently. With a great wrenching of the handle, he yanks the door open, revealing the prize: great piles of cash, floor to ceiling. 

Color him reluctantly impressed. “Nice going,” he grunts, plowing past him inside. “Come on.”

Gavin shuffles behind, appropriately frightened. He dutifully opens his duffel and grabs as much cash as he possibly can at once, hands stuffed with stacks, and, Ryan cheerfully notes, as silent as the grave. He doesn’t even flinch when the bank’s automatic alarm goes off, signaling the end of their five-minute grace period. Ryan much prefers him this way, mouth shut instead of running off, quickly working rather than wasting their time by talking. He’s definitely going to have to threaten Gavin’s life more often; he had been worried that the mystery surrounding “The Vagabond” had worn off through time and exposure, but if Gavin’s meekness is any measure, Ryan still commands just as much fear as he used to. 

At last, they are finished. Forty million in the bag – quite literally. “Let’s go.” 

Tromping up the stairs, they are greeted by the dulcet tones of Michael Jones, still loudly and angrily pontificating away about nothing in particular. “Finally!” he growls, spotting the two of them. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Got your six!” Jeremy calls, sweeping behind them as they regroup at the exit. “Yeah, I see you, old man! Don’t even try it!”

Through the thick paneled door, the telltale whistle of police sirens hints at quite the welcome reception. “How many cops you reckon, Michael?” Ryan asks, glancing at the misted windows.

“Dunno,” says Michael, draping lengths of shells over his shoulders. “What’s between a shit-ton and a fuck-ton?”

“Here’s the plan,” Ryan says, pressing his back against the door, pocket knife drawn. “Michael, you lead the charge. Do not let up on that minigun for a second – clear us a path to the bikes. Gavin and I will flank, and Jeremy, you keep covering our backs. Do not be afraid to use your grenades!”

“Roger!” Jeremy shouts, inching backwards.

With a flick of the knife, Ryan cuts the zip-tie around the doorknob. Closing his eyes, he breathes out, letting the emptiness of his lungs hold him, ground him, fill him with stillness, then breathes in. When he opens his eyes, the world is sharper, slower. “The minute I open that door, Michael,” he says, “all hell is gonna break loose.”

Michael’s only response is to cock the mini-gun, bracing it at gut level.

“Okay. Door will open in three, two, one– “ Ryan is cut off by the jet stream of Michael’s bullets flinging the door wide open, striking an unfortunate cop in the chest and flying him backwards, hitting the officer behind him with a dull thud. “Move up!” Ryan shouts over the din, darting to flank left. 

Slowly, inexorably, they make their way across the street, Michael’s diabolical cackling leading the way as he unloads a never-ending waterfall of gunfire onto the police, helping pave the way for them towards Vinewood Boulevard. The cops cower behind their vehicles, and any attempt to break cover is swiftly taken out with a well-timed headshot. Ryan counts six by the time he gets to the edge of the sidewalk – his personal best in a firefight being ten – and four exploded cop cars, courtesy of Gavin lobbing grenades like snowballs. All in all, it’s a decently chaotic escape; the cops are keeping a nice, even distance away, and aren’t even attempting to break the perimeter until Ryan turns a corner into the alley. “Alright, boys!” He shouts, reloading his weapon. “First checkpoint cleared. The cop cars are too big to fit in the alley, so get ready for a full assault on foot. Get in formation Echo, Delta – “

“Chopper!” Jeremy shrieks behind them. 

Without missing a beat, Michael heaves the mini-gun up, firing straight into the air. Above him, Ryan hears the distant patter of bullets hitting metal, then a large boom as the earth beneath them shakes. “Chopper?” Michael laughs, full-bodied and delightful, “what chopper?!”

“Incoming!” Ryan screams, and Gavin squawks, sprinting out of the way just as a piece of a rotor lands where his neck had been moments ago. “Move, move!” He waves them all past, even Jeremy, who shoots him a quizzical brow. “I’ve got your six, let’s go!” 

One crashed, smoking helicopter makes for excellent cover, but Ryan still has to pick off the brave policemen who are attempting to rescue their comrades from the wreckage. Serves them right for ruining his desert bunker. 

By the time he gets to the bikes, everyone else is saddled up and ready to go. “Here,” Ryan grunts, slinging the duffel bag off his shoulder and holding it out to Jeremy. “We go in teams,” he barks. “Team one, Michael and Jeremy. Team two, Gavin and I.” 

“Team Short Temper!” Jeremy crows, high-fiving his partner.

“Each team has one runner, and one blocker. It’s the blocker’s job to protect the runner at all costs. Runners – do not engage. Your only job is to make it to the rendezvous point.” He mounts his bike, reaching up under his helmet. “Switch on your comms, now. Team one, do not leave without us, or unless I give you an explicit order.”

“Testing, testing, one, two, three,” Michael crackles in his ear. “This is blocker one to blocker two, we are standing by for launch.” Jeremy revs his engine, one tightly wound bundle of focus, all of it pointing forwards.

“Team one, go!”

Like a bat out of hell, Michael and Jeremy scream out of the alleyway, their whoops echoing off the concrete. Fifteen seconds later, Ryan and Gavin follow suit, Gavin nearly plowing straight into a cop car on his way around the corner.

“Christ alive!”

“Watch where you’re going, Gavin!” Ryan snaps. “You’ve got half the fucking payload!”

“Oh, thanks for the reminder, I had no bloody idea!” 

Whatever retort Ryan had is forgotten as Michael radios in, urgent and full of static. “ _Blocker one to two, you’ve got a police blockade incoming, about half a mile_.”

“Roger,” Ryan grunts, reaching for his gun. “We are coming up on Calafia. Runners, remember to swerve left – cop cars will always swerve to your right to try and ram you. Gavin – “ he waves him on, finger on the trigger, “get in front.”

Gavin blanches under his visor, bike swerving as his attention slips from the road. “Wh – are you serious? What do you want me to do, soak up the bullets for you?”

“Gavin – “ Ryan warns, one eye on the upcoming blockade, there’s one car that looks suspicious as it starts its run towards them - 

“Because if you’re actually trying to kill me, I think there are easier ways than – “

“Dodge!” he screams, just a breath too late.

Gavin swerves left, the cop car swerves right, and they meet in the middle; with a sickening thud, Gavin hits the windshield and tumbles over the hood, landing flat on his back with only the duffel bag of money to cushion his fall. The bike skids yards away, front wheel spinning wildly off its axle, spring forks and brake cables scattering the highway pavement. “I’m hit!” Gavin shouts, scrabbling for his weapon, but the only object within reach is the severed safety bar. “I’m off!” From the passenger side of the car, a cop emerges, clean cut and sneering, bringing his foot firmly down on Gavin’s chest and his pistol pointed squarely at Gavin’s face.

The bike beneath him roars, the wind crashes in his ears, drowning out Michael’s shouts over the radio, and Ryan can see every single strand of hair on the cop’s head, every single stitch in his neatly pressed uniform, every bulging vein and flash of teeth and delusional dream of taking down such a high ranking member of the Fakes as Ryan rushes towards him. With a roar of burning rubber, Ryan grits his teeth, squares his shoulders, and heaves, running his front wheel directly into the guy’s chest, knocking him clear off of the cowering boy at his feet. “Get up,” says Ryan, punctuated by a single shot as he executes the moron who thought he could mess up Ryan’s plan. 

“Ryan!” Gavin gasps, fearful eyes wide, “you saved me!” 

With an impatient snarl, he trains his micro on Gavin, trigger finger steady. “Get the fuck up.”

“Hey!” He protests with a pout, scrambling to his feet. “I was almost shot in the face, you prick!”

“And I will be goddamned, Gavin,” growls Ryan, steely and cold, “if I let you fuck this up for me. Now, shut up, and get. On. The bike.”

They run. 

By the time they reach the boat, Jeremy is already parked in the driver’s seat, and Michael has traded in his mini-gun for a sniper. "They're here!" Michael yells.

"Hang on, Michael boy!" Gavin shouts, practically diving off of the bike into the shallow shores of the river. "We're almost there!" The kid is in a remarkably good mood for nearly having died, but Ryan supposes he can forgive him. Just this once. 

It is forty million dollars, after all.

"I'm in," Ryan grunts, hauling himself over the portside gunwale. "Let's go!"

With another whoop, Jeremy slams on the gas, whizzing them up the river, over the rapids, under the highway, into the open sea when - 

"Copboat, incoming!" Jeremy shouts, turning hard to starboard. With a thump, Ryan hits the edge of the boat with his skull, and when he blinks, Gavin is standing over him, rocket launcher in hand.

"Gavin," Ryan mumbles, "what're you - "

He braces the barrel with his knee, bumping the sight with his nose, and under his breath, Ryan can hear him mutter, "Come on, come on, come on, don't miss - " The force of the fired rocket knocks him back on his ass, but can't knock the savage smile from off his face - nor can it muffle the telltale boom of a copboat exploding into bits. 

"Yes!" Michael crows. "Gavin, you animal!"

This time, when Ryan meets his gaze, Gavin refuses to back down. A warm, creeping feeling burrows its way through his chest, and before he has time to examine it further, the ship's radio crackles, their savior's voice ringing out clear as day. " _Base C to lifeboat, this is Mica, we are transmitting you our position, over._ "

"Mica!" Jeremy cheers, "I have literally never been happier to hear you in my entire life!"

" _Flattery will get you everywhere, Dooley. ETA_?"

"Give us half an hour," Jeremy replies, knocking switches and slowing their pace. "I wanna enjoy this goddamn boat ride."

" _Roger that. Mica out. Nice work, boys._ "

The sky burns bright around the setting sun, the salty sea air filling their noses and whipping their hair, and the lads are dancing around their seats, preening and peacocking for God and all the world to see, and Ryan lets the thought of his success relax him until he, too, is enjoying the view.

**Author's Note:**

> There was supposed to be Freewood bc I do what I want, but idk where it went. And also I gotta work on better endings. 
> 
> I love this series and I wish they'd do it again but with a different team! Definitely some of their best GTA vids everrrrrr


End file.
